My style is a mess

And I’m trying to understand why

Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash

It’s 1997 and I’m heading to Meadowhall to meet my two best friends for a late afternoon shopping spree.

We love to shop. Whether it’s Barnsley, Meadowhall, Leeds, Manchester occasionally, Birmingham for The Clothes Show Live, or London for a treat, shopping is our favourite pastime. If it was a sport, we’d win Olympic medals.

When we’re not shopping, we talk about clothes and what we’ll wear for this night out and that night out. We earn our money waiting tables at our local Toby Carvery and spend most of it, possibly all of it, on new outfits.

We know what shops and styles we like and, thanks to the tips from generous customers at the carvery, we have the cash to splash out. Still living at home, we don’t have to worry about mortgages or paying bills because that’s what parents are for. Within a few months, we’ve spent enough money buying dresses from Richie’s, a trendy boutique in Barnsley, that we’ve qualified for a gold card, giving us ten percent off for life.

For life!

This, we think, is what success looks like.

We don’t plan beyond the next night out or the next shop. We’re all students at Barnsley College, studying for our A-levels, but, in my case at least, I schedule my studies around socialising and shopping. I have my priorities right.

Tonight’s shop is a midweek low-key affair, meeting in Morgan in House of Fraser. As I’m early, I wander around the store, looking at the new arrivals, including some trousers—the tight, low rise, bootcut variety.

It’s in the trouser section that I notice a woman pushing a pram. She moves from rail to rail, picking up clothes, holding them up in front of herself, putting them back. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she has a blank, confused look on her face.

I catch her eye and smile.

‘Is this what everyone wears now?’ she asks, holding up a pair of the bootcuts.

I nod.

‘And is everything one-size?’ she asks.

Fancying myself as a Morgan shop assistant, I go over to help. Together we select a few pairs of trousers and a top, and she’s so grateful, thanking me over and over.

‘I’ve not been shopping for a while.’ She points towards the pram, where the baby is sleeping. ‘I’m really out of touch.’

She thanks me again and disappears into the changing room. When she emerges, a few minutes later, her face is red, and sweat patches are seeping through the underarms of her T-shirt. She shakes her head. ‘They’re not for me. I couldn’t get them over my knees!’

She fumbles with the clothes and hangers, gives up trying to hang them and instead drapes them over the rail. ‘This is not a shop for me. It’s okay for your age, but I’m older and… getting used to a new body shape.’

I don’t know what to say to this, so I just smile, as though I understand, when at 17, I really don’t.

She pushes the pram towards the door at a sprint-like pace.

I watch her leave—sorry that she feels this way, sorry that the choice of clothes and sizes are so limited and just really sorry for her. As well as not knowing what to wear, she was confused, anxious and so unsure of herself.

Imagine getting to the point where you are clueless about clothes. Imagine that.

Is this what happens when you get old I wonder? Will that happen to me?

Immediately, I push that thought from my head. No way. I wouldn’t let it.

Fast forward 28-years and I follow my sister and 12-year-old niece into Bershka, a new store that’s just opened in Meadowhall. It is very much like stepping into another world. Music blares out. Screens dotted around the store fight for my attention. I wander around, picking up jeans and sweatshirts, baggy T-shirts, and even hot pants, and put them all back on the rail, especially the hot pants. If I was on the lookout for a pair, I’d prefer mine with a bit more cheek coverage.

‘Is this what everyone’s wearing now?’ I ask, and my niece rolls her eyes.